


A Swallow's View

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Astral Plane Shenanigans, HUGGGSSS, Happy Ending, M/M, SHEITH - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Shiro isn’t lost after the season 2 finale; he’s suspended in a version of the astral plane, unable to communicate with the Paladins as they mourn his passing.Originally written back in August 2017 for the Aphelion Zine!





	A Swallow's View

Shiro’s awareness trickles back drop by drop. He awakes to a vast blackness.

It’s like his cells have turned to dust motes. For a moment, Shiro can’t tell whether he still has a body. Then he looks down, and he sees clothes and skin. He’s still solid, though his limbs feel vague and distant.

Shiro commands his arms to move. A firecracker of pins and needles erupts under Shiro’s skin. The sensation prickles down his torso, all the way to the tips of his toes. Shiro’s fingers twitch once…a second time.

Shiro grits his teeth. He forces his flesh hand outward, and combs through the void for some hint of texture—some tether to reality.

As he fumbles around, a light pulses somewhere on Shiro’s periphery. Shiro slows his frantic search. He finds that he can turn his head, and he watches as a speck of light unfurls, then blooms all at once like sunrise. Shiro moves to shield his eyes from the glare.

There’s a great shift of planes, and the dark void vanishes.

Real air hits Shiro’s face. He chokes on an exhale. The rapid thud-thud of his heartbeat pounds a path through his ears; Shiro clutches his chest and doubles over. Never before has he been so aware of the thrum of his pulse, or the taste of the roof of his mouth, or the way his skin tingles where his hair stands up on the back of his neck. Shiro’s lungs fill and deflate, fill and deflate. For a moment he lets the relief crush him. He sits hunched with his right hand still outstretched, and indulges in the simple joy of existing.

“Shiro!”

Shiro starts at Keith’s voice. He looks up, and blinks at the sight of Black’s dashboard. He’s seated in Black’s pilot chair, slumped forward with his hand wrapped around Zarkon’s Bayard. It takes Shiro a moment to loosen his grip around it. He lets the weapon rest in its holster, arm falling limply onto Black’s armrest.

There are a series of clicks as Black’s systems grind to a halt. Her screen flutters, then fades to black. There’s not even enough power to sustain the warning lights; the purple colors flicker out right as the cockpit door opens.

“Shiro?”

It’s the other Paladins, bunched around Black’s doorway like they’re afraid to enter her cockpit. Shiro, braced over the edge of his seat, turns to give a feeble wave.

“Is everyone all right?” he asks.

There’s a pause. Team Voltron enters the cockpit slowly. The Paladins’ boots rattle against the floor as they surround Shiro’s chair.

“I’m okay,” Shiro assures the group, at the tense atmosphere. He takes in everyone’s shocked faces. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Lance is staring down at Shiro’s chair, seemingly at Shiro’s middle. “He’s gone,” Lance says.

Shiro’s blood runs cold.

“What?” Shiro says. “Who’s gone?”

“That’s not possible,” Keith says, thickly. “He was _right here_.”

“Who?” Shiro demands, feeling lost. Why won’t anyone look him in the eye? “ _Me?_ Keith, what’s going on?”

“Did Zarkon connect with the Black Lion? It’s ejected Shiro before.”

Pidge’s fingers dig into Shiro’s chair. “But he didn’t radio us for help!”

“He could’ve been unconscious…”

“Everyone, back to the bridge,” Allura says. Keith is already halfway out the door. “We’ll track Shiro’s energy signature.”

“Wait!” Shiro is stumbling out of his chair. “I’m right here!” He reaches out to grab Pidge’s shoulder as she races by—

—and his hand passes right through her armor.

Shiro prides himself in his quick recovery time. His ability to lead a pride of ancient, robotic space lions is a testament to his versatility. But in this moment, Shiro can only stare. He senses the rush of air between his fingers, unhindered by Pidge’s metal shoulder pads, and looks after her, helpless, as she dashes out of the cockpit.

The Paladins plunge out of the hangar one by one. Shiro stays behind. It takes him a while to gather the strength to raise his arm.

As a test, Shiro leans forward. He grabs the Black Bayard and pulls.

There’s no movement. The Bayard stays lodged in its holster, cold and uncaring as Shiro claws at the handle.

No dice.

Shiro straightens. He moves to the front of his chair, running his hands over Black’s dashboard. He can feel the soft texture of Black’s screens under his fingertips—but upon further exploration, he finds that he cannot flip any switches or dials. Buttons stay erect. Levers remain locked.

Shiro reaches out with his mind. He finds Black at the back of his head, curled up and deeply drained. It seems that she’s offline both physically and magically. Shiro shoots a note of sympathy down their mental link. Black doesn’t respond.

Shiro doesn’t have a choice. The cockpit is untouchable. He slips through the still-open door, and starts across the hangar.

 

 

 

Shiro finds that he is more in tune with the emotional atmosphere now that he has no effect on the physical plane. He enters the main deck, and the team’s anxiety hits him like a freight train.

Allura is chasing symbols across her monitor, fingers flying like a piano player’s. Coran is perched at his control panel with his hair askew; he dashes to another screen across the room and relays a short string of data:

“We’re picking up a signal from the Inoa galaxy’s beta quadrant!”

"That can't be right," Allura barks. "The Inoa system is hundreds of light years away...”

“I can’t explain it, princess,” Coran says. “It shouldn’t be possible—but there are traces of the Black Lion’s energy signature on the outskirts of the galaxy.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Keith demands from the back of the room. He, Lance, Hunk and Pidge are poised at the door, ready to bolt to their lions. “It doesn’t matter how he got there; if we know where he is, we need to go get him!”

“Very well,” Allura says. “Everyone, brace yourselves for a wormhole jump!”

There’s a great revving of engines, and then the Castle is spilling out into space, riding the tendrils of some supernatural current. Shiro can feel the air bend and crackle around him as they travel. He’s never been so keenly aware of the galaxies that spin by; he can feel his own body tingle as the wormhole stretches and contorts to accommodate the ship’s size.

Shiro makes to turn around. He catches a glimpse of Keith’s pinched brow before the ship exits the wormhole. Then they're at a standstill, and footsteps ring down the hall as the Paladins race for their respective hangars.

Shiro resigns himself to a long wait on the bridge. He gets the sense that his existence, even spliced like this, is precarious. He doesn’t want to push his luck by following his friends out into open space; better by far to stay in the Castle, close to Black.

Allura and Coran are on the comms, directing the Paladins to Shiro’s proposed location. Shiro keeps his gaze fixed on the windows, eyes peeled for any signs of his physical body. He suspects that his current form is only an echo of his consciousness, preserved or projected somehow by Black’s powers. Perhaps once the Paladins track down Shiro’s corporeal body, they’ll be able to reunite his body and spirit.

There’s a flash, and the Blue Lion whooshes past the windows. The Paladins have decided to share a ride. Shiro steps closer to the glass. He rests his flesh hand on the cool surface, and finds that he has no reflection.

Shiro perks up at Allura’s congratulatory cry; the Paladins must have found Shiro’s body. He abandons the glass for the main console. One of the Paladins flicks on their camera; Shiro watches over Allura’s shoulder as his teammates scramble to gather a limp body under their arms.

“—Doesn’t look so good,” Hunk says. Shiro squints at the video's poor resolution; Pidge is the Paladin behind the camera. She floats back, and Shiro gets his first look at his body, braced between Hunk and Keith like a ragdoll.

The Shiro on the main deck feels his throat tighten. His physical body looks lifeless, his face pale as paper.

“Get back to the ship,” Allura snaps. The camera wavers as Pidge and her teammates jetpack past Blue’s open jaws. Then there’s a rush of darkness.

Coran’s eyes are wide as he flips between monitors.

“Number Five?” he ventures. “What’s going on up there?”

“Just a tick.” There’s a glint of blue, and another blackout. “Hold on…”

Shiro can hear the other Paladins start to panic over the audio feed. He registers a clack of armor against metal, and a faint rustle. Some cursing. The familiar pop of a freshly-removed helmet. Shiro strains to catch the details; Lance makes a pained noise, and Pidge says, “Hunk?”

The camera flicks back online, though the video shakes a bit with Pidge’s arm. From his position at the control panel, Shiro can make out his own body, helmetless and prone on Blue’s floor. Hunk and Keith are positioned on either side of that Shiro’s shoulders, Keith’s hands steeled along Shiro’s arm as Hunk presses two fingers to his carotid artery.

There’s a pause. On the bridge, Shiro can feel Coran and Allura’s white-knuckled anxiety like a weight on his chest. Hunk’s fingers don’t budge from Shiro’s throat.

“Hunk,” Pidge begs. “Tell us he’s alive.”

For a second, Hunk remains hunched on the floor, still as a statue. Then he rips into action: “Keith, get his chest plate off!”

Keith’s hands are as white as Shiro’s face. He and Hunk scramble to remove Shiro’s upper armor. There’s a sharp clang as Shiro’s chest plate hits the floor. Hunk falls back on his knees, one hand folded over the other; Keith looks on as the Yellow Paladin plants his palm over Shiro’s heart. Then Hunk starts to perform chest compressions, and Keith ducks his head.

Shiro can hear Lance yell over the comms; the video cuts out as Pidge drops to the floor.

On the main deck, Shiro closes his eyes—tight enough to see spots behind his eyelids. Grief wells in his chest. He can hear his own armor brush the floor of Blue’s cockpit twice every tick, to the rhythm of Hunk’s chest compressions. Pidge and Lance are calling out to Shiro—

“Come on Shiro, don’t do this—”

“Shiro, please—”

“Just a little longer—”

A rustle of clothes makes Shiro to open his eyes. Coran races out of the room, no doubt on his way to prepare a pod. Shiro has to admire his optimism. It’s obviously hopeless. Shiro knew the moment he saw Keith’s shoulders droop.

Shiro is dead.

Or—his body is dead. In some strange way his mind persists, suspended between the real and metaphysical planes. Shiro’s hollow gaze returns to his hand. It feels so real. Shiro focuses, and he can feel the blood pulsate down the length of his fingers.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Hunk is crying. Pidge is rambling. They must have reached the Castle, because Allura’s monitor pips, and suddenly there’s a snapshot of Blue’s hangar onscreen.

Allura’s hands fly from the monitor. She dashes away down the corridor, her hair staying from the confines of her bun.

A dusty silence settles over the main deck. For a time, Shiro stands poised at the main monitor, his eyes smarting from the glare of Allura’s screens. He tries to think back to the battle with Zarkon. He remembers grabbing the Black Bayard and twisting it in its holster; a surge of triumph as Voltron’s sword punctured Zarkon’s armor. And then…what?

Nothingness.

What has Shiro done to himself?

 

 

 

By the time Shiro enters Blue’s hangar, the Paladins are gone. Shiro passes through pockets of fear and shock as he walks, left behind from when the Paladins rushed Shiro’s body out of the hangar. Shiro turns, and follows the trail of emotion back through the open door.

The corridor is stock-still. Shiro’s eyes are downcast, his boots soundless where they meet the marble floor. In the wake of all the past commotion, quiet warps the empty space.

The infirmary looms at the end of the next bend. Shiro lingers at the mouth of the doorway. He peers through the entrance, and locates his body at once. He’s been deposited on a raised platform at the center of the room. With the exception of his helmet and chest plate, Shiro’s armor is still on. His eyes are closed. Someone has crossed his arms over his chest.

The conscious Shiro has to brace himself against the doorframe.

They didn’t bother with a pod after all. They’ve given up. Shiro’s body is officially out of commission.

Shiro can feel his lungs start to collapse. His eyes sting. He forces himself through some square breathing, his throat barely a pinhole. He can hear Hunk still crying on the stairs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

It takes Shiro some time to disentangle himself from the doorway. He crosses the threshold of the infirmary with measured steps, shoulders squared, and approaches the body on the platform. He stops a yard from the table.

Keith is poised on the right side of the platform. His eyes are trapped on Shiro’s pale face, his arms crossed like he's holding his chest together. He appears to be guarding Shiro’s head.

Shiro reaches out with his newfound awareness. He searches for some hint of sensation behind Keith’s eyes, but Keith has barricaded himself behind a wall of emotional static.

Shiro takes another deep breath. With a small amount of trouble he lifts himself up onto the table, and arranges his current spiritual form along the contours of his corporeal body. Perhaps he can treat his body like a suit, and reunite his flesh and soul.

As Shiro relaxes against the table, Keith says, “How did he get so far away?”

There’s no answer. From where he lies aligned with his physical body, Shiro peeks around out of the corner of his eye. Hunk is crouched on the stairs, his face buried in his hands. His cries are quieter now; choked into his fingers. Lance slumps against his side. He stares past Shiro at the far wall, his gaze void. His hands dangle limply between his knees.

There’s a tiny, pinched noise from below. Pidge trembles at the bottom of the stairs, her legs crushed to her chest.

“Do you think he died out there?” she manages. “If we were light years away, time would’ve been different for him. He could’ve been—he could’ve been stranded for hours. Days.”

“He was already gone,” Coran says softly, from the other side of the room. “Though you’re right; his body was free-floating for about a quintent.”

Shiro swivels his head. Coran is standing at attention, Shiro’s helmet on his head. His mustache is barely visible under the visor. If Shiro listens carefully, he can hear the faint pop and hiss of radio chatter.

Coran’s fingers shift along the edges of the helmet. “His last recording took place before you defeated Zarkon. After that, it’s just vargas of radio silence.”

Where she stands at his side, Allura rests a hand on Coran’s shoulder.

Back at the table, Keith’s frown deepens. He tears his gaze from Shiro’s face.

“Allura,” Keith demands. Allura startles at his tone; her hand clenches around Coran’s shoulder. “ _How did Shiro get so far away?_ ”

Allura swallows. She speaks slowly, her voice low. “I don’t know. It’s—unlikely that the Black Lion ejected him mid-jump. He probably—” Allura scrubs at her eyes. “He could have travelled by accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your lion manipulates fire and heat energy. The Black Lion manipulates aether. With many centiphebes of practice, Zarkon was able to use the Black Lion’s power to warp space-time.” Coran removes the helmet, and Allura turns away. “It doesn’t seem possible. But Shiro may have used the Black Lion to teleport through space.”

“But why would he do that?” Lance begs from the stairs, his voice small.

Allura won’t look at him.

“I don’t know,” she repeats. Her free fist clenches at her side. “Shiro probably didn’t know what he was doing.”

“And that could’ve killed him?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Coran sighs. Keith’s eyes are bright with anger; his Adam’s apple bobs once as he swallows. Coran meets his gaze evenly. “We need to get him into a cryopod. It can provide a postmortem scan.”

Well, that’s something at least. Shiro’s plan to merge with his body doesn’t seem to be working. He’s been lying on the table of a good minute or so, and he hasn’t felt anything click into place. Perhaps if Shiro stands with his body in the cryopod, the scanner will pick up an energy signature, or mend his body and consciousness.

A great reluctance fills the room. No one wants to move Shiro from his pedestal. At last, Keith’s arms tremble from his chest. He grasps Shiro’s upper arm. “Come on guys,” he murmurs, more to Shiro’s corpse than anyone else. All the heat is drained from his voice. “Let’s go.”

Allura steels herself. Her eyes flit closed, then snap open with a determined gleam. Shiro is reminded of all the people she’s lost in the war. “You can hold him under the arms. I’ll get his feet.”

As Allura strides forward, though, something changes. Keith tenses. His fingers go bone-tight around Shiro’s dead arm, though the conscious Shiro can't feel Keith’s touch.

“I don’t understand,” Keith says. The words trip out of his mouth. “He’s—this can’t be right.”

“What’s happening?” Pidge asks, from the floor. Allura pauses on her way to the table.

“You said Shiro was suspended in space for about a day. If he was dead all that time, floating in a body-temperature space suit—” Keith has to stop to collect himself. “His heart isn’t beating. There’s no oxygen flow. Rigor mortis should’ve set in hours ago.”

Coran quirks a brow. “‘Rigor mortis?’”

“The stiffening of muscles after death,” Pidge says. Keith is fussing with Shiro’s limbs, turning over his arms like the answers are written on his skin.

“There’s something wrong,” Keith decides. Fear punctuates the words. “Allura? Coran? Does this have to do with the Black Lion?”

Keith’s wall has started to crack; his emotions seep through the gaps like blood from a wound. He’s afraid to get his hopes up, Shiro realizes. Keith wants to believe Shiro can be saved—even now, with his corpse strewn across a table.

Allura takes her own look at Shiro’s arms and legs, concerned. “Let’s carry him to a pod.”

Keith pounces into action. He and Allura slide Shiro’s body out from under his conscious spirit. Coran plucks at the monitor; there’s a hiss, and a pod emerges from the floor. Shiro scrambles off the table.

The rest of the Paladins track Allura and Keith’s progress across the room. They stare as Shiro’s corpse is bundled against the back of a healing pod. The conscious Shiro follows his body, passing through Keith and Allura’s shoulders on his way into the cryopod. He pivots fast enough to watch the pod door slide closed behind him.

The activity outside dwindles; the nervous energy fades to a low rattle in the back of Shiro’s head. Moments pass in rigid silence.

If he had a physical form right now, Shiro would be sleeping. As it is, Shiro shifts against the back of the healing pod, making sure he's aligned with his actual body, and stares out through the pod door at his friends’ worried faces.

Suddenly there’s a burst of chatter. Shiro can hear Coran’s voice, muffled through the glass: “He’s definitely not breathing. Technically, he hasn’t been alive for at least a day—but somehow his organs haven’t shut down.” Coran shakes his head, bewildered. “The brain, the heart...they’re all healthy. Perfectly preserved.”

Lance dares to pose the question: “So he might not actually be dead?”

“Difficult to say,” Coran breathes. “There’s something going on here, that's for certain—something to do with the Black Lion.”

A flurry of red catches Shiro’s eye. For the third time that day a uniformed Keith races out the door, braced to pluck Shiro from the jaws of death. An aura of determination and fear lights the floor where his boots strike the marble.

Pidge heaves herself up off the floor. She brushes her hand over her eyes, readjusts her glasses, and sprints after Keith towards the Black Lion’s hangar. Lance and Hunk are the last to follow, weighed down by their grief. They stumble up the stairs, calling after Keith and Pidge, and jog in tandem down the hallway.

The earlier quiet returns. With the Paladins out of the picture, Coran’s posture slackens. His stern expression drops into something open and sad. Coran and Allura don’t move from their positions around the control panel.

“Someone should stay here and monitor his readings,” Coran suggests quietly.

Allura stares into the sheen of Shiro’s cryopod, her earrings twinkling under the ceiling lights. She seems to shake herself from a deep slumber. “Right,” she says. “You go. I’ll keep watch.”

Coran offers up a sad smile.

“It’s all right, Princess,” he says. “The Paladins need you.”

“And you,” Allura scolds. She concedes, however, and starts for the doorway.

“I won’t be long,” Allura promises. “We can work in shifts.”

Coran only hums, his focus hinged on the screen under his hands. His movements are sluggish now, the air around him darkened by a shroud of doubt and sorrow. The Princess disappears down the hall, and Coran takes a moment to hang his head.

A long sigh slips out between Coran’s teeth. Then he tows himself upright, and starts to type.

Shiro waits for a few minutes, poised to mirror the position of his physical body. Every fibre of Shiro’s consciousness wants to race after Keith and the other Paladins, but he forces himself to linger long enough to know the pod isn’t working. Allura and Coran are right: this has to do with the Black Lion. Shiro can retry a healing pod when she’s back online. For now he’s a sitting duck, stranded between planes of existence.

Shiro lets out a long breath. He raises his metal hand against the glass of the cryopod. Can he exit the healing pod without Coran’s help?

Shiro remembers how his hand phased through both Pidge’s arm and her uniform. It seems like Shiro can bypass metal and fabric as well as organic matter. Perhaps if he focuses hard enough…

Shiro channels his energy down the length of his arm. He turns his thoughts towards the steady thrum of his heartbeat; the tiny whir of silence in his ears.

Shiro reaches out, and his hand passes through the glass.

 

 

 

When Shiro enters Black’s hangar, Keith is yelling.

“Come on!” Keith bellows, planted at Black’s paws, head thrown back as he addresses her lifeless eyes: “I know you can hear me! Wake up!”

“Keith—” Lance tries, but Keith won’t turn around.

“Shiro needs you!” Keith cries. “Don’t you understand? Your Paladin could be _dead_ right now!”

Shiro rushes across the hangar. There’s a clang of metal as Keith bashes himself against Black’s front paw.

“Wake _up_!” Keith screams. He steps back to make room for a second assault; Keith’s hands find his Bayard, but Allura seizes him under the arms before he can make to strike.

“Let me go!” Keith demands. His Bayard clatters to the floor. Allura drags Keith backward, away from the Black Lion. Keith kicks and bucks in Allura’s hold. Hunk and Lance move to restrain him fully.

There’s a great flood of motion as Team Voltron wrestles Keith to the floor. Shiro breaks into the crowd, his form flickering amidst the knot of moving bodies. He stares, helpless as Keith writhes on the ground.

“Let me _go_!” Keith shouts. His foot phases through Shiro’s shin. “You have to —let me go!”

Allura keeps her hands pinned on Keith’s shoulders; they hitch a bit as Keith surges upward. “Keith, you—”

“No,” Keith barks. “I have to help him—”

“ _There’s nothing you can do_.” Allura drops the words like stones onto Keith’s chest. Keith spasms once under Allura’s grip. “The Black Lion will awaken once she has the energy. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I can’t—” Keith’s fingers curl and clench along the floor. His chest rises and falls, breaths wet and rapid-fire.

Keith swallows once, with effort. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Lance squeezes Keith’s ankle where he sits crouched at Keith’s legs. Slowly, the Red Paladin lets his head fall back against the floor.

“I can’t do this again,” Keith croaks.

And there it is. Shiro can feel it in the air, raw and gentle and broken...light as a bird’s bone.

Love.

Bright. Aching. Love.

It’s a well-trodden emotion. Shiro watches as a hazy glow forms around Keith’s body, white and damning like a chalk fairy.   

Heat builds behind Shiro’s eyes. He brings a fist up to his mouth.

He didn’t know. _How could he not have known?_

“I can’t _do_ this again,” Keith repeats. All the fight has left his body. He lays still pinned to the floor, his lips a thin line, and starts to shiver.

There’s the barest shift of fabric as Allura’s hands leave Keith’s shoulders. Lance’s grip loosens around Keith’s legs.

Hunk takes the opposite approach. He reaches down, grasps Keith by his arms, and yanks him up against his chest. It’s a fierce embrace, made bulky by Hunk’s armor.

For a moment Keith resists. He sits, propped up around the ring of Hunk’s arms, tense as a board. But Hunk only tightens his grip around Keith’s back. He nestles his head along the line of Keith’s shoulders, and closes his red-rimmed eyes.

Slowly, Keith sags against Hunk’s torso.

The seconds tick past. Hunk murmurs something Shiro doesn’t catch. Then Keith dips his head to meet Hunk’s shoulder.

His shoulders hitch as he cries.

Shiro lets the moment buckle him. It’s not like anyone will see. He folds downwards onto the floor, his legs curled behind him, and feels his hands fall about his lap.

Pidge’s eyes are on the Black Lion. Shiro follows her gaze up, up, up to Black’s head. There are scuffle marks along her maw; dirt patches across her throat. Even asleep, she looks deeply tired.

 _Please_ , Shiro thinks, to the dead space in his head. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. _Please…_

 

 

 

Somehow, Allura convinces everyone to get changed. The Paladins’ civilian clothes return some semblance of normalcy to the situation. Team Voltron sits slumped in a loose circle on the floor of Black’s hangar. There’s a sense of camaraderie amidst the despair.

The minutes turn to hours, and the Paladins finds ways to distract themselves. Lance and Hunk fetch a deck of cards they forged from alien paper. Coran arrives later with food goo, then recruits Pidge in the recovery and distribution of “bed socks” (known to the Paladins as sleeping bags). It’s all a bit like a perverse sleepover.

Every once in a while Shiro tries to catch someone’s attention. He yells and shouts and pleads—but no matter how Shiro concentrates, his calls go unheeded. His skin always passes through the Paladins’ flesh and clothes.

Shiro gets close, once, when Pidge falls asleep in her bag. There’s some resistance when his hand meets Pidge’s arm. His breath brushes her bangs; she twitches in her sleep when he speaks into her ear. But when she wakes, she doesn’t remember Shiro’s words.

Shiro’s resolve is threadbare. All his hopes rest in forces beyond his control. When the strain becomes too much, he sits alone at the corner of the hangar and plays at meditation.

A cuddle pile builds Paladin by Paladin on the floor. It starts when Keith pads over to a slumped Pidge. He speaks to her quietly—too quietly to be heard from across the room, where Shiro sits—and there’s a flash where Pidge’s glasses reflect the hangar lights. Pidge shakes her head. She gestures for Keith to sit next to her, and Keith clambers to his knees. He pauses, then mirrors Pidge’s cross-legged position. The two align their shoulders.  

Gradually, Pidge lolls sideways. She lets her temple rest on Keith’s shoulder. Shiro watches as Keith clenches his hands. Then he props his head atop hers.

Hunk and Lance drag over their bed socks. The crew endure half a game of Go Fish before Hunk starts to fade. He pillows his face in Lance’s lap and forfeits. Lance scratches his fingers through Hunk’s hair.

One by one, the four Paladins droop towards the floor. Allura promises to keep watch on the Black Lion while they sleep.

Shiro picks his way through the tangle of bed socks to Keith’s side. Keith lays curled on the edge of the group, his hair mussed along his pillow, back pressed to Pidge’s like he means to defend her from a drone attack.

The rest of the team has drifted off to sleep, but Keith’s eyes are open. He stares harshly up at the Black Lion, his expression deeply worn.

Shiro sits beside Keith’s head. He leans back on his hands and sighs.

“I’m coming back to you,” Shiro promises.

Keith doesn’t hear, of course. His aura is a low, pulsing grey.

Shiro stretches out his legs.

Together, they wait.

 

 

 

The Black Lion comes back online, and Shiro’s eyes snap open.

It’s a familiar sensation. Shiro’s chest heaves. Cold air hits the back of his throat. He coughs, and the sound rattles up his ribcage. His lungs ache from disuse.

Shiro’s hands convulse; his flesh palm smears the glass of his cryopod. The Black Paladin lifts his head, and the pod door fizzles open.

Light floods the tiny compartment. There are spots behind Shiro’s eyes.

“Shiro!”

Coran’s voice. Shiro’s pupils constrict. He blinks against the glare, and finally locates Coran at the central monitor. He stands propped against his keyboard, his blue suit ruffled, posture taut like a metal spring.

Shiro laughs. A surge of relief makes his heart sing. He finds the strength to move his legs; Shiro stumbles out of the pod, crosses the short distance to the main monitor, and engulfs Coran in a hug.

“I’m back!” Shiro declares. He squeezes Coran about the midsection, who makes a sound not unlike a “whoof!” and deflates under his arms. By the time he’s mustered the composure to return Shiro’s hug, the Black Paladin has disentangled himself from the embrace. He shoots away down the hallway with all the resolve of a homing missile.

“Wait!” Coran calls after Shiro, somewhat hopelessly. “I didn’t get a scan—”

Shiro’s boots slap a rhythm into the floor. He revels in his ability to make sound again; he claps his metal hand across the walls as he races down the corridor, feet skidding on the sharper turns. There’s a pounding in Shiro’s head, his pulse beating bruises into his skin.

Shiro reaches Black’s hangar in record time. He slams his palm into the door pad.

The door emits a soft “whoosh” as it opens. Shiro spots Allura through the metal gap, her hand cupped over her earpiece; she’s running for the doorway before Shiro can step over the threshold.

“You’re alive!” Allura cries. She flings her arms around Shiro’s torso. The force of her hug propels him backwards; he staggers under the assault. Shiro chokes on an affirmative noise. About twenty yards away, the Paladins are awake and scrambling, their feet catching on the plush material of their bed socks as they surge towards the door.

“Shiro!”

“ _Shiro!_ ”

“You’re back!”

Lance reaches Shiro first. Like Allura, he barrels into Shiro’s torso. It’s more of an attack than a hug.

“What the quiznak, man!” Lance shouts, voice muffled by Shiro’s shirt. Hunk and Pidge clamber into the group hug. “You scared the pants off of us!”

“You have to promise to never, ever do that again,” Hunk blubbers.

“Are you okay?” Pidge asks.

“Where were you?”

“What happened out there?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Shiro says. Pidge tightens her grip around Shiro’s stomach; Shiro pretends to wince at the combined pressure. “I think I separated my body and my consciousness. My body teleported, and my mind stayed here.”

Lance looks up, his expression accusatory. “You mean you were here the whole time?”

“In spirit,” Shiro amends. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you…”

Shiro cranes his neck up over the heads of his friends, scanning the hangar for a red jacket. Hunk catches onto Shiro’s intent, stepping out of the hug with a barely-disguised sniffle.

“Yo, Keith!” Hunk calls, turning towards the team’s shedded bed socks. “Come join the reunion!”

Keith is standing atop the bed socks pile, boots missing, his grey shirt rumpled from sleep. He still has his belt on.

Seconds pass. Keith seems reluctant to leave his post on the sleep socks. Then, carefully, the Red Paladin lifts his feet.

It’s silent but for the gentle pit-pat of Keith’s footsteps. Shiro can’t see auras anymore, but he can tell the air has gotten heavier. Allura must sense the shift as well, because she strays from the group hug.

There’s a pause. The other Paladins are reluctant to move away. With time, however, the ring around Shiro’s waist dissolves. The team steps back to give Keith and Shiro some space.

Keith stops a foot form Shiro. He stares up into his face with that same guarded look from before, when Shiro was still a corpse on a table.

Shiro’s heart clenches.

Keith coughs. He tilts his chin up.

“Good to have you back,” Keith says. He claps his hand around Shiro’s arm.

Shiro feels his whole body slacken. He’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

At Shiro’s silence, Keith’s brow furrows. His gaze is full of expectation.

_It’s good to have you back._

It’s an invitation, Shiro realizes. His arm quivers under Keith’s hand. They’ve walked this road before.

_It’s good to be back._

All Shiro has to do is say the words, and balance will be restored. He and Keith will resume life as usual, buried under their respective duties, and sweep this day under the rug like a dustbunny.

_Bullshit._

Reaching out with trepid fingers, Shiro cups Keith’s face between his hands.

Keith startles. He looks like a cornered rabbit, his socked toes curled against the floor—but his hand stays clenched around Shiro’s arm as his fingertips settle along Keith’s jawline.

Shiro takes a deep breath. Ever so slowly, he dips his head.

Shiro presses his lips to Keith’s. It’s a short kiss—soft but deliberate. Shiro barely tastes Keith’s chapped lips.

There’s a tiny sound as Shiro breaks the connection. He lets his lips brush against the side of Keith’s mouth, and nudges their foreheads together.

Black’s hangar hums. Shiro can feel the team’s eyes on his back.

With great tenderness, Shiro’s fingers slip from Keith’s face. He draws back, and Keith’s bangs tickle his nose.

Shiro straightens. He looks down. Keith’s eyes are wide, his lips still parted slightly.

Shiro speaks past the lump in his throat:

“I love you.”

Keith still hasn’t moved his hand. His fingernails dig into Shiro’s arm.

Shiro has to fight not to turn away. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think you would ever—”

“No.”

Shiro stops. Keith’s eyes are narrowed.

“You don’t get to do this,” Keith says. “You don’t get to—die like that. And just…”

“Keith—”

“You’re hopeless!” Keith shouts, and then there are hands around Shiro’s collar. Keith yanks Shiro down to his level; he nearly topples onto the floor as Keith crushes their mouths together.

Surprise nails Shiro’s arms to his sides. Keith’s palms are hot on Shiro’s face, his fingers bunched over his ears. He kisses Shiro like he’s trying to drown in him.

It takes a moment for Shiro’s brain to flicker back to life. The stony grip on Shiro’s shoulders loosens, and the Black Paladin surges forward into Keith’s hands. Shiro tilts his head; his nose skims Keith’s, and his mouth closes more solidly around Keith’s lips.

Keith hiccups on a breath. He presses forward against Shiro’s lips, his kisses harsh and fevered as Shiro’s fingers thread through the hair at the back of his neck.

Shiro registers a chorus of voices as the Paladins whoop and tease. Lance splutters and points; Pidge laughs. Shiro doesn’t stop to think. His whole world is shockwaves of color. He runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, and the weight of their combined panic crumbles to seafoam.

Shiro and Keith assume a less fevered pace. Keith pauses long enough to let Shiro peck a path up his cheek. Shiro ends the trail with a big kiss on Keith’s brow, and Keith smiles weakly, like he’s out of practice. He squints up at Shiro past his bangs.

“Stick around this time?” he murmurs.

Shiro’s eyes prickle. His fingers fall from Keith’s hair to his shoulder blades.

“I never meant to leave,” Shiro says.

Keith drops a hand to trace the contours of Shiro’s prosthetic wrist. He guides Shiro forward, and the two wrap around one another.

They hold on. It’s all they can do.

**Author's Note:**

> Two bird-related titles in a row...  
> Coincidence, or omen?? We shall see... O:
> 
> Tumblr: Mighty-trash.tumblr.com


End file.
